Be My Girlfriend

70

Jo's P.O.V.

The cab slowed to a stop near the campus, and I took a long, steadying breath. My heart was hammering, but I had rehearsed this—every step, every look, every word. I arrived quietly, in control, and was exactly on time. Not too early to face Brittany and her minions, not too late to miss the ceremony.

I opened the door, the air brushing against my face. The campus looked the same as always—students laughing, families carrying flowers, the banners announcing graduation fluttering lightly in the breeze—but nothing felt the same. Every cheerful noise, every happy face, felt sharp against the hollow ache in my chest.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the cab's side mirror. Puffy eyes, dark circles, a little redness around my nose—I had tried to cover it with makeup, but it was still there. No concealer could hide what had happened in the past two days, no powder could mask the tears I had refused to shed in public. I smoothed my hair, adjusted my gown, and squared my shoulders. I couldn't let her see me broken. I wouldn't.

And then, almost like fate, I saw her.

Brittany.

She was standing near the main entrance, talking to one of her minions perfectly poised, radiant, the kind of effortless that made my chest tighten. My stomach dropped, and I felt that familiar twinge of anger rise, the one I had been holding onto for two days.

I had expected her to be looking for me. After all, she always did. And after avoiding her for two days—ignoring her calls, refusing her texts, staying in a motel just so she couldn't find me—I knew she would be angry. Confused,  but definitely angry. I had come prepared.

I didn't let my eyes linger on her. I kept walking, my steps steady and deliberate. 

But then, as if sensing me, she turned—and her eyes locked on mine.

Her smile faltered, replaced by something sharper, a mixture of worry and anger. In an instant, she was running toward me, strides long and fast, a sense of urgency in her movements. My stomach twisted. I had expected her to be looking for me, but not this—so direct, so fast, so unavoidable.

"Jo!" she called, her voice sharp but laced with something else, something softer underneath the anger. "God, where have you been? What happened to you? I didn't hear from you for two days, two days, Jo! Do you know how long is two days for me without hearing anything about you? I was worried, I couldn't contact you, I couldn't reach you, and I know Reese was lying when she said she didn't know where you were, what happened, Jo? Where have you been?"

I let her reach me, letting her stop just a few feet away, letting her finish her questions. My hands gripped the straps of my bag tightly, forcing my posture straight, my expression unreadable. Puffy eyes hidden behind makeup, hair smoothed down—every detail controlled. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

"Brittany," I said, my voice calm, deliberate, carrying a cold edge I had honed over the past two days.

Her chest rose and fell quickly, and she looked like she wanted to argue, to plead, to demand answers all at once. "Jo... I've been worried. I—"

"Save it," I said sharply, stepping slightly closer so that she could feel my presence, my controlled anger. "Today is the day, right? Do it now."

Her eyes widened, a flash of fear crossing her face. She looked confused. "What... what do you mean? What are you talking about? Where were you?" Her voice wavered, tense and shaky.

"Stop pretending to be worried. Doesn't suit you, Anderson," I said, my hands gripping the straps of my bag until my knuckles turned white.

She tried to reach for my hand, but I recoiled. I wouldn't let her touch me. Not now. Not ever again.